


Honey You're On Fire, Let Me Help

by ohmarqueliot



Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Blow Jobs, Depression, Hand Jobs, M/M, Suicide Attempt, some serious self loathing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-14
Updated: 2018-08-14
Packaged: 2019-06-27 08:27:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,857
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15681696
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ohmarqueliot/pseuds/ohmarqueliot
Summary: Quentin is enjoying a few hours off, until he picks up the wrong key. Set mid S3. *tw for some pretty dark, nasty depression monster thoughts and suicidal thoughts.





	Honey You're On Fire, Let Me Help

Humming under his breath, Quentin turned the page of the book he was reading. It had been a while since he'd read a Fillory book for enjoyment rather than seeking answers to some conundrum or other, and when he'd realised he had a few hours spare and he was actually in a reading mood he'd found his headphones, chosen a playlist and stretched out on the couch in the cottage. He was determined to just enjoy himself for five damned minutes - not think about the quest, not worry about the future, just... breathe.

Closing his eyes, he took a long breath in, holding it for a few seconds before letting it out.

_This is so... what the fuck?_

A loud crash broke through the sound of his music. His eyes flying open, he sat up quickly, looking around the room for the source of the noise. There were no enemies or monsters or ram-headed gods charging in. The room was empty. Pulling off his headphones, he listened but couldn't hear anything, and he couldn't see anything out of place.

Pushing himself to his feet, he walked slowly through the common room. “Hello?” Pausing at the entrance to the kitchen, he took in the broken glass on the floor in front of the sink. “Is anyone... Oh, shit,” he said as a thought occurred to him. “Penny?” It wouldn't be the first time he'd broken things to get their attention. And if no one else was here to drop a glass then maybe...?

But Penny never destroyed glassware because he just wanted to chat.

Running to the desk where they keys were hidden, Quentin pulled open the drawer and fumbled through the labels attached to the keys, grabbing the one with the number 2 written on it. “Penny?” he said aloud, looking around the room.

Someone appeared, but not from out of nowhere, and it wasn’t Penny. Todd stopped in his tracks, broom in hand, quizzical expression on his face. “Quentin? Are you okay?”

Quentin frowned, taken aback. “Yeah, I, uh… Are you…?”

Todd held up the broom. “Dropped a cup. Eliot won’t really mind, will he? It was one of the set he was collecting, but it was an accident… So…”

Letting out a sigh of relief, Quentin waved dismissively when Todd grinned at him. “Oh, no, you’re fucked,” he said cheerfully, grateful that there wasn’t another emergency to deal with. For now, anyway. Todd’s eyes widened, then he disappeared back toward the kitchen – probably to hide the evidence.

“God, you really can’t do anything right, can you?”

Quentin stiffened at the sound of his own voice, then turned to see himself standing in front of him. Other Quentin smirked, his eyes dark, and he stared at him uncomprehendingly. “Come on, you can get there,” he said patronisingly.

Slowly, he looked down at the key in his hand, dread filling him when he truly saw it. Not wanting to believe it, he flicked over the label attached to it, feeling nauseous when he saw a number 4 instead of a 2 written there.

It wasn’t the truth key.

_No. No, no, no, NO._

“Whoomp, there it is.” His other self, his darkest self, appeared suddenly right in front of him, and he slowly raised his eyes to meet his own gaze. Every part of him was struck with horror. “Don’t worry,” Depression Quentin said with sweet menace. “I’m all the truth you need.”

* * *

 

The tiles were cold under his thighs and against his back, but Quentin didn’t really feel it. Nor did he feel the spray or the warmth of the water, aside from every now and then when it got in his eyes. All of his attention was on the box cutter in his hand. There was no use trying to focus on warm – all he felt inside was cold.

“Which is fine,” his own voice said flippantly from the other side of the shower curtain. “You’re no use to anyone warm, anyway. Might as well just get it over with.”

“Shut up,” he whispered angrily, his voice hoarse from how tight his throat had felt for the last few hours.

“The best part is,” he continued, ignoring his protests completely in much the same manner as he had since his hand had first touched that cursed metal, “I’m not actually saying anything you don’t know. These are _your_ thoughts, you know. So, I don’t really know what the holdup is. Except for the fact that you’ll probably fuck this up too, I guess,” he added as though an afterthought.

Quentin tried to block it out – he really did – but he’d been trying and failing for so long he’d lost track of the hours. It had been morning when he’d first picked up the key by accident, and he wasn’t sure of the time now but there was no light but moonlight coming through the bathroom window. He’d turned the ceiling light on out of habit before he’d entered the shower. Not that it really made a difference – his darkest thoughts were just as vicious in the light as they were in the dark.

Slowly, he turned the box cutter in his hand until he gripped it by the handle. He could close his eyes and still see him in front of him; cover his ears and still hear his voice clearly. Every minute his ability to block him out, to ignore him, faded just a little bit more. His thumb found the safety, gradually pressing down. He watched the blade slide out with unseeing eyes and felt a peculiar satisfaction at the sound it made when it clicked into place.

Someone has turned on music in the common room, so loud that he could hear it muffled in the shower, above the water, above his thoughts... but not above the form the depression key pooled his self loathing into. He glared up at his mirror self when he appeared above him in the small space, seemingly oblivious to the spray of water as it hit him. He felt a wave of hatred at the way his face looked with his wet hair plastered to it, hated it more because he knew he looked exactly the same. _It's_ me _, after all._

“Press hard, Curly Q,” he said, leaning in close. “You don't want to fuck this up. You know what an attempt would look like, with your record. They'd never let you out, ever, and you won't get a chance like this in there.”

He was right. It would be so easy to just be done with it – the quest, the pain, the voice, his life. It would be the easiest thing, easier than suffering, easier than breathing.

 _No._ Filled with the very real fear that he was going to press the blade against his skin until he bled out, he tossed the box cutter past the shower curtain, hearing it clang against the floor tiles. Maybe if he had to get up and walk to get it, it would buy him an extra five minutes.

The fact that he wasn’t sure if that was true or not only made his self contempt stronger and his resolve weaker.

Bringing his knees up to his chest, he wrapped his arms around them and turned to lean his side against the shower wall. Hoping to calm himself down, distract himself, anything, he pressed his cheek against the wall, the tiles cold in contrast to his flushed skin and hot tears. “I’m stronger than you,” he said weakly.

His mocking laugh was all the response he needed – they both knew how big a lie that was.

The knocking on the bathroom door was loud enough for him to hear over the music and the shower and his worst thoughts, but he only turned his face further against the wall, wishing he could disappear. When it came again he curled in on himself tighter, bringing one of his arm up over his head. “Quentin? Is that you in there?” The doorknob rattled, then there was a click and then Eliot’s voice was much clearer. “I think the aftershave Margo bought me last year is in here somewhere.”

Overwhelmed, Quentin dropped his head, squeezing his eyes shut, pressing his mouth against his knee against the sobs that threatened to escape him. He felt… relieved to hear Eliot’s voice, horrified that he might catch him like this. Terrified that he wouldn’t even notice, terrified that he would. Sick, he felt sick. He started shaking, inundated by all of it – by the key, by himself, by Eliot and the range of panicked feelings going through him.

“Sorry to interrupt…” Eliot continued, oblivious. “Well, I’m not, but I’ve been back for half an hour and you’ve still not come out. I was starting to think that you might be getting up to something I might enjoy watching, if you know what I mean, but – huh. Why is there a box cutter on the floor? Doing some arts and crafts in the shower? Maybe some –“ He fell silent suddenly, and then he heard the shower curtain being pulled back, the cold air from the bathroom an attack on his bare, wet skin.

In that moment, in the long, still silence before Eliot reacted, Quentin hated himself more than he’d ever imagined anyone could hate anything. _Ask for help,_ he pleaded with himself, and then flinched when he heard his own voice in his ear. “As if he’d care.”

“Fuck,” Eliot said quietly, and then warm hands were on his, pulling his arms away from his head, checking his wrists for, for blood, he realised. “Q,” he said, his voice pained, and when his arms wrapped around him, pulling him away from the wall and against his chest, heedless of the water still falling from the shower head, Quentin couldn’t hold it back anymore. A whimper escaped his lips, and Eliot held him tighter, one arm around his back tight enough that he couldn’t breathe, the other hand on the back of his head, tangling in his wet hair and holding his face against his shoulder. “Fuck.”

In the arms of someone who loved him – “You think he _loves_ you? Oh my god, what a joke” – he finally let himself let go just a touch. Pulling himself impossibly closer, he clung to Eliot as though he was his lifeline and to be honest, in that moment he probably was. Turning his face into his neck, he tried to breathe but all he could manage was irregular gasps around the sobs that he was no longer able to hold back. Eliot made a sound, his cheek pressing against the top of his head. “No, Q,” he whispered. “Just… no.”

After a moment he shifted, and Quentin readied himself for him to pull away and leave, but instead the water stopped falling and then Eliot’s arms tightened around him again. One hand rubbed up and down his back in soothing circles as he cried himself. He couldn’t stop shaking, and not from the cold air.

When Eliot eventually pulled back Quentin let his hands drop into his lap, immediately feeling self-conscious again. He couldn’t look at him, couldn’t even imagine it, but then his hands were on his face, angling it so that he had to meet his eyes. Eliot’s brow was furrowed, his eyes red and haunted, his mouth parted as though he was about to say something, but then he closed his mouth into a hard line. “No,” he said again, his voice firm now. “You don’t get to… to do that.”

“I wasn’t going to,” he protested automatically, his voice sounding weak even to his ears, and he scrunched his face up against the torturous sound of the depression monster’s sceptical laughter.

“Hey,” Eliot said, his thumbs smoothing his face, forcing him to look at him again. “Let me help you, okay?” He held his gaze, ignoring the water that dropped from his hair into his eyes, and Quentin pressed his lips together in an attempt to stop from crying again. “Okay?” Eliot repeated.

He tried to speak, choked on his tight throat, tried again. “Okay,” he said faintly, but once Eliot let go of him and stood up he immediately felt a coldness settle over him that wasn’t entirely due to his wet skin and the chill air. Curling in on himself again, he closed his eyes and lowered his forehead against his knees, focusing on his breathing.

“What’s he going to think of you now? I mean, he knew you’re a sad sack, but now he’s going to think of this every time he sees you. Poor little Quentin, sobbing naked in the shower. You think he’d love you after seeing you like this? You think he’d want to _fuck_ you after seeing you like this?”

“Here.” Quentin jumped when a thick towel settled around his shoulders, and then Eliot was pulling him to his feet. He stumbled at the sudden movement, half-falling into Eliot but he held him steady, one hand on his shoulder to hold him upright while the other tugged the towel further around him. As much as a simple comfort the towel around his shoulders was and as much as he didn’t want to move or think or even be, he suddenly wanted to get out of the bathroom, and knew he’d have to cover himself more appropriately to walk through the cottage. Making his hands cooperate, he moved the towel to sit around his waist and tucked the end in to make it stay put.

Eliot was right there with him, his hands helping his tighten the towel, touching his back, his shoulder, his cheek, and Quentin honestly felt like it was the only thing keeping him present. Realising how useless he was, he pressed his knuckles into his closed eyes, willing it all away. This wasn’t him – well, it was, but he was _never_ this bad. 

“You couldn’t even finish it, you fucking coward.”

“I don’t want to feel like this anymore,” he whispered, and felt a firm hand squeeze his shoulder.

“I know.” As though he knew how much an apparently meaningless thing meant, Eliot dropped another towel around Quentin’s shoulders, and he held it tightly around himself like a shield.

One of Eliot’s arms wrapped firmly around his shoulders, and the other hand was reaching for the doorknob when Quentin stiffened. “My clothes,” he said urgently, reaching back to his pile of things that he’d placed on the edge of the bathtub. 

“I got it.”

Quentin opened his mouth to protest but Eliot was already there, and he held his breath as he picked up the bundle and tucked it under his arm, opening the door before returning his arm around Quentin and pulling him along. His fingers itched to grab for his things, to make sure the key was still there, to make sure that Eliot hadn’t accidentally touched it, but before his worry could turn to panic he caught a vision of himself on his other side and felt an incredibly confusing blend of relief and despair. “Don’t worry,” his mirror said smugly. “You don’t get rid of me that easily.”

Thankfully, they made it to Eliot’s room without running into anyone. Eliot’s hand remained firm on his shoulder as they walked down the hallway, only lifting once they were inside his bedroom. Eliot dropped his clothes on the bed and then started undoing the buttons on his vest, and it was only then that Quentin realised that he and his clothes were saturated. Dropping the wet garment on the ground, he turned his hands to his shirt and Quentin was surprised to see that they were shaking. He walked over and took Eliot’s hands in his to still them, gripping them tightly between them.

Taking a long, slow breath, Eliot squeezed his hands tightly, his eyes on the floor. “Are you surprised that he doesn’t want to look at you?” his own voice said from over his shoulder but Quentin blocked it out. Helping him push the shirt off his shoulders, he held out the other towel.

Eliot looked at it for a moment before taking it, holding it absentmindedly against his chest and not really making any move to dry himself off. “Thank you,” he said. He finally looked up at him. “Quentin,” he said sadly, reaching for his cheek.

His mirror’s laugh, loud and gleeful behind him, made him flinch, and when he saw the startled concern in Eliot’s eyes he backed away. “Oh, look at that _pity_. _Oh, poor Quentin_.” Swallowing hard, he turned around, closing his eyes so as not to see his own face, even if he couldn’t block out the words. “This could not be any more depressing if you tried.”

“Q –“

“I’m fine, just, um, give me a sec.” Scrubbing his hands over his face, he tried to breathe through it.

After a moment he heard more wet clothing fall to the floor, then the sound of a drawer opening. “I’ll give you a second,” Eliot said slowly behind him. “But you’re going to talk to me. And I’m not leaving you alone until I know you’re okay.” There was a pause, and quiet footsteps across the room. “There’s some sweatpants on the bed for you.” The quiet determination in Eliot’s voice managed to warm him a little for the first time since he’d touched the damned key.

_The key._

Spinning on the spot, his heart stopped when he saw Eliot reaching for his small bundle of clothes that sat on the end of the bed. “Wait,” he said quickly, but not before his hand closed over the clothes and he picked them up. The key, which he’d carefully wrapped in his shirt before stepping into the shower, dislodged and fell onto the bed. Seeing the key, Eliot glanced at Quentin quizzically before looking back at it. A moment later his shoulders stiffened. “Ah, Quentin?” he said carefully, not looking away from the key. “Why is the abyss key wrapped up in your clothes?”

“ _Busted._ ”

Quentin stared at the key too, feeling sick just from the sight of it. “I didn’t want anyone else to touch it,” he said, unable to get his voice much above a whisper.

Eliot let out a huff of disbelief. “Fucking hell, Q,” he said, his voice pained.

He raised his hands helplessly. “I know,” he said weakly.

Finally, Eliot turned to look at him, and Quentin reluctantly raised his eyes to meet his, fighting against the instinct to look down, look away, run away, disappear. His brows were knit close together, his eyes dark. “How long?” he asked simply, gesturing to the evil thing on the bed behind him.

“A couple hours.”

Pressing his lips together, Eliot closed his eyes and turned away, looking like he was battling with himself. Shaking his head, he tossed Quentin’s shirt over the key, using it as a barrier to pick it up and put it on top of the dresser. He’d pulled on a pair of loose linen pants but hadn’t yet bothered with a shirt, and Quentin watched the tight muscles in his back nervously as he moved. Taking a deep breath, he turned back toward him, and Quentin was a little surprised by the depth of anger he saw on Eliot’s face.

“Are you really, though? I’m surprised he hasn’t just fucked you off by now.”

“Why didn’t you come to me?” Eliot asked quietly, and it wasn’t just anger, it was hurt as well, and that was impossibly worse.

Quentin swallowed down the lump in his throat. “You weren’t here,” he pointed out.

“Well, someone!” Eliot threw his hands up in the air in frustration, and Quentin did his best not to flinch at the sudden change in tone, feeling a little too raw to manage an argument.

Except he wasn’t just sad and fucking miserable and hurting, he was also pissed off. At the key, at the situation, at himself, and he did _not_ deserve to get yelled at for this. “No one was here,” he said irritably, crossing his arms over his chest, then changing his mind and gesturing toward the door. “What, except Todd. Should I go to him about my fucking depression monster now?”

“Yes,” Eliot snapped immediately. “And give him the fucking key.”

Quentin screwed up his face sceptically. “Right, so he can off himself instead?”

“Better him than you.”

The conviction behind that statement made him feel a little uneasy. “You don’t mean that,” he said slowly.

Eliot shook his head in frustration, his shoulders rising and falling in another deep breath. “Of course I fucking mean it.” Stepping up to him, he gripped tightly at his shoulders, squeezing them tightly before moving his hands to cup his face, his neck, brushing his thumbs over his cheeks, his fingers twisting briefly in his hair before settling on his shoulders again. Quentin watched him closely as his eyes darted all over his face, and felt a little overwhelmed by the variety of emotions he saw. “I am not losing you to this,” Eliot said, his tone making it clear he would allow no other option. “I am not losing you, period. Fuck the key. Fuck all the keys.”

“We need the keys,” Quentin protested half-heartedly. He’d thought he didn’t have any tears left to cry, but his chest tightened at Eliot’s declaration. Despite all of their years together, he couldn’t imagine that anyone would care about him this much.

“And I need you,” Eliot said firmly, pressing his forehead against his so that Quentin had no choice but to meet his eyes. “Do you hear me? I need you, Quentin Coldwater. I will get you through this.”

He didn’t think – his thoughts right now were the problem, so instead he just acted. Wrapping his hand around the back of Eliot’s neck, he closed the remaining distance between them, kissing him with everything he had. His lips were warm and soft, and so wonderfully familiar, and he poured every feeling, good and bad, into the easy way that Eliot’s mouth responded against his.

Eliot kissed him back automatically, but far too quickly he was pulling back slightly, nosing against his cheek instead. “Um. That’s not exactly what I meant,” he said, sounding deliciously breathless.

His words protested but his body told another story, leaning into Quentin’s and Quentin leaned right back, snaking his arm around Eliot’s waist and pulling their bodies flush together. Mouthing his way along Eliot’s jaw, he focused all of his thoughts on the way his hips rolled slightly into his own. “Shut up,” he said, burying his hand in Eliot’s hair to hold him still.

The sound that came from Eliot’s throat was best described as a whine. He turned his head into Quentin’s, pressing their cheeks together. “I mean, I’m not complaining, but…”

“It sounds like he’s complaining.”

Quentin stiffened at the sound of his own voice, and Eliot’s arms tightened around him automatically. _He’s here for you. Let him._ “Shut up,” he begged, “and distract me from my brain trying to make me kill myself.”

Eliot pulled back slightly, and Quentin’s spirits fell slightly. _Of course you took it too far. Suicide isn’t sexy, you fucking idiot._

“Oh, great. Your own thoughts are doing all the hard work for me. With me or without, it’s only a matter of time before you end it.”

But Eliot wasn’t looking at him with judgement, or disgust, or any of the other things he feared. His eyes darted between his searchingly, and the next moment he was pulling him close, covering his mouth with his own and kissing him deeply. Quentin felt such a wave of relief that he wanted to curl up and cry but he focused instead on Eliot. Eliot’s hands on his bare skin, his bare chest pressed against his, his mouth and lips kissing, sucking, prying his open with a desperateness that might have only been matched by his own.

He wasn’t sure whether he pushed or Eliot pulled, but soon they were stumbling toward the bed. The back of Eliot’s legs hit the bed but as they fell, somehow it was he who ended up on his back, and the familiar weight of the body above him felt like it could extinguish any bad thoughts, no matter the cause. He felt the brush of sure fingers against the sensitive skin just above his hip bone and didn’t really have the time to think about why before the thick towel wrapped around his waist was instead pooling underneath him, and when Eliot pressed down on him again he could feel the distinct hardness of his erection rubbing against his own through the thin material of Eliot’s pants. Moaning at the sensation, Quentin leaned into Eliot as he moved his lips along his jaw, lightly sucking a trail down his neck.

“And just so you know,” Eliot said, his voice thick and deep and going straight to his cock, “I’m not here just because of your magical case of bad brain.” He kissed his way down his chest, circling his nipple with his tongue before sucking it into his mouth firmly, letting it go with a smack of his lips. “I’m here because I love you, and I care about you.” He shifted to the other nipple, his fingers trailing teasingly down his sides, and Quentin didn’t try to hold back his wanting moan. “And I would be touching you like this anyway. I love touching you like this.” Shifting lower, he trailed his tongue over his hip bone, making him jump with the way his gentle touch contrasted with the way he gripped tightly at his ass, holding him still. “I love watching the way you want me. I love watching the way you seek your own pleasure with me. I love watching the way your brow furrows and your mouth falls open when –“ He didn’t finish his sentence, instead  pushing his legs apart and sucking on the skin in the crease of his thigh, and he didn’t even care how predictable his cry was when it fell from his lips, his hips bucking up into the touch.

Some part of him cared, apparently. “You seriously believe that? That someone as confident and sure of himself as Eliot Waugh could seriously find some kind of pleasure with you? He’s just saying that.”

“You’re just saying that,” he repeated breathlessly, somehow torn between embarrassment and anger at the thoughts his mirror self forced him to consider from where he sat on the bed right beside them, and wonder at the idea that Eliot might actually put his hands and/or his mouth on his straining cock.

Eliot hummed against his skin, his deft fingers running over his thighs. Pulling back slightly, he settled properly between his legs. “I’ve said it before, haven’t I?” He could feel his breath on his cock with every word. “I’ve touched you before. I’ve loved you before. I’ve –“ Quentin’s breath caught in his throat as, just like that, Eliot took him into his mouth, his lips closing around him and sinking down until he hit the back of his throat. His mouth tightened over him, and Quentin’s head fell back onto the bed helplessly as he slowly, excruciatingly slowly, sucked from base to tip. He was trembling when Eliot finally pulled away. “Before,” Eliot finished with a wink and a smirk, and he knew he should roll his eyes, knew he was being cheesy, but somehow he’d also never seen anything sexier in his life and all he wanted was for him to take his cock in his mouth again.

“Please,” he gasped, squirming with need, his hips shifting of their own volition to bring him closer to Eliot’s mouth, and when he obliged, wrapping his lips around him and swirling his tongue around the head of his cock, he suddenly found it hard to breathe. He gripped tightly at the blanket, twisting it between his fingers.

“You look ridiculous,” Depression Quentin said flatly.

“Fuck you,” he groaned.

Eliot’s hands squeezed his thighs before one moved to his cock, taking the place of his mouth as he pulled back, his thumb swiping over the tip with every upstroke. “Hey,” he said softly, and Quentin reluctantly met his eyes. “Focus on me.”

Wrapping his mouth around him once more, Eliot kept stroking his hand over him while his tongue did torturous things, and for a moment Quentin found it hard to believe that anyone could even consider focusing on anything else.

And then –

“Yes, let’s focus on Eliot.” The voice came from further across the room but was no less jarring. “Eliot, who’d rather be off in Fillory with his wife and his fiancé. The fact that he has both means he doesn’t want you. You realise that, right? Sure, he had to marry Fen, but when he found out he could take a husband as well you didn’t even cross his mind.”

 _No,_ he thought firmly. Reaching down, his hand found the back of Eliot’s head and helped guide his movements, trying to block out everything except for the man between his legs. _Eliot has always been there for me. I don’t need him to marry me to know that. We’ve had seventy years together. He knows every part of me and he still wants me._

“He puts up with you, you mean. For seventy years he _put up_ with you. At least when he died he was rid of you, until Margo had to ruin it by creating a new timeline. You don’t have to wait that long, though. Just do it. Kill yourself to spare him having to suffer through his life with you. Spare them all. Just fucking do it. _Do it._ ”

He couldn’t take it anymore, he just couldn’t. Pressing one forearm along his chest as though he could hold himself together, he covered his face with the other. _I can’t do this._ _“Fuck,”_ he whimpered, feeling tears prick at the edges of his eyes again.

Eliot stopped instantly, and Quentin looked through his fingers to see him lifting his head and staring at him worriedly.  “That didn’t sound like a good ‘fuck’,” he said cautiously.

“Don’t… don’t stop, please,” he begged, reaching down again to thread his fingers through his curls, tugging on them imploringly. “Please, El.”

Eliot ignored him, crawling up the bed and Quentin didn’t wait for him to settle in before his arms wrapped around him, pulling him close to feel the warmth of his skin against his own. Eliot’s mouth found his and he kissed him hungrily, taking every single bit of him that he was offering up. Rolling onto his side and pushing Eliot with him, he gripped tightly at his shoulders, his fingernails probably leaving marks but he didn’t care and didn’t have the presence of mind to wonder if Eliot would either. Sure fingers found his cock and stroked over him in steady, practised movements and Quentin thrust desperately into his hand. His chest tightening painfully, he pulled his mouth away and buried his face against Eliot’s neck, gasping for air. “Eliot,” he pleaded.

Eliot’s hand cupped the back of his head, holding him close, as his hand kept moving over him relentlessly. “I know, Q,” he murmured, his lips moving against the side of his head. “I’ve got you.”

“El,” he groaned, and then his whole body stiffened as he came, heat spurting over Eliot’s hand and both of their stomachs. After a moment he began to tremble, a little overwhelmed with the concept of release after so long riding a razor’s edge, and Eliot’s mouth pressed tighter against his head.

All too soon, though, he pulled away, ignoring Quentin’s wordless protest. Feeling the mattress shift, he closed his eyes and fell onto his back, reaching out wordlessly and hoping he was close enough to grab and pull him back down. Instead, something soft hit his hand and he opened his eyes in surprise to see a towel in his grip. Starting to catch his breath, he took the hint and cleaned himself up.

Frowning suddenly, he looked quickly around the room. Eliot was standing over by the dresser, but there was no sign of a darker, broodier version of himself. He didn’t want to test fate, but he couldn’t help the shocked laughter that fell from his lips. “I think you blew the depression monster out of me,” he said in disbelief.

He was joking, but also he unmistakably felt, well, better. Sitting up and leaning against the headboard, he watched Eliot’s back as his shoulders stiffened. After a moment he lifted his chin and turned around. “Yeah, something like that.”

The key was in his hand.

Quentin stared at it dumbly for a few long seconds, not willing to comprehend what he was seeing. Dread filled him, settling in his gut and making him feel sick. Scrambling off the bed, he reached out to snatch the key back but Eliot lifted it out of his reach, and for the first time Quentin resented the extra height he had on him. “Give it back.”

Eliot laughed, and his voice already had a strained tone to it. “Yeah, right.”

He scowled up at him. He felt like a weight had been lifted off his shoulders, and he hated just how relieved he felt. He hated that Eliot had put taken on another burden just to make his life easier.

 _You were about to kill yourself,_ he reminded himself.

_Yeah, so imagine how Eliot feels right now._

So he could still argue with himself. That was… great.

“Why the fuck did you do that?” he asked, his relief and dread mixing into anger.

“You know why,” he said seriously. “We’ll figure a way to stop the cycle.” As though it were the simplest thing in the world. “And in the meantime, you’re not going to carry the burden alone. We can take turns.”

Quentin raised his eyebrows at him pointedly. “Poppy’s crew took turns.”

He screwed up his face in disdain. “Yeah, and they only passed it on when they died. We’re not that stupid.” As he finished speaking, his eyes darted over Quentin’s shoulder and after a moment he visibly paled.

He didn’t need to ask to know what he was looking at. “What did he say?” he asked quietly.

Eliot snorted. “What do you think?” he said dismissively. “Obviously we are that stupid. But it’s fine, according to me over there we can keep passing it back and forth until we all off ourselves.”

Quentin winced. “Eliot…”

With obvious effort, Eliot straightened his shoulders, and the way he smiled down at Quentin somehow felt genuine despite the transparent fear in his eyes. “And in the meantime…” he said suggestively, and when he reached out to Quentin he went willingly, pulling him close, determined to show him with his body and his words and his heart just how wrong the lies were that his darkest self was whispering in his ear.


End file.
